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LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 


founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


T 


^ 


THE  LINCOLN  BOOK  OF  POEMS 


■^ 


THE  LINCOLN  BOOK 
OF  POEMS 


WILLIAM    L.    STIDGER 


^ 


ABnctveRTiAn 


IP 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THB  OORHAM   PRESS 
I9II 


Copyright  1911  by  William  L.  Stldg«i 


AM  Rights  Reserved 


T  HE  GoRHAM  Press  Boston,  U.  S. 


1^        ..(^3 

H^St  ^'^   CONTENTS 


Pages 

Lincoln's  Heart  an  Aeolian  Harp 7 

Happy  When    Others    Were    Happy,     Sorry 

When  Others  Were  Sad   8 

Just   be   Kind    9 

Where  There  Grew  a  Thistle 9 

Acquainted    With    Grief    11 

The  Humble  Walk  of  Life 13 

That  Wondrous  Name    14 

"With  Him  I  Cannot  Fail" 15 

The  Pure  Thread 16 

That  Sacred  Hour   17 

Flow  Gently  Now,  Sweet  Sangamon 18 

The  Sangamon's  Glory 19 

At  the  Grave  of  Anne  Rutledge 21 

"I  Cannot  Forget"   23 

Beside  White  Cots 24 

Lincoln's  Gethsemane    25 

The  Face  of  Lincoln   26 

"Father  Abraham"  They  Called   Him 27 

The  Path  he  Trod— The  Path  of  the  Hill.  .  .  28 

His  Entrance  to  Ford's  Theatre 29 

The  Storm  and  the  Calm    30 

^          "Now  He  Belongs  to  the  Ages" 31 


^ 


LINCOLN'S  HEART  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP 

Open  to  the  gentle  touch  of  every  tiny  breeze 
That  drifts  along  the  river  o'er  the  fields  and  trees; 
Atune  to  every  breath  of  wind  that  wavers  on  the 

hill, 
A  breath  of  harmony  and  song,  that  breaths  above 

the  rill. 
Aeolian   Harp  of  highly  tempered,  vibrant  strings; 
Aeolian  Harp  that  whispers,  crys,  and  laughs,  and 

sings 
Athrough    the   sunny  day,   and   through   the   wind 

tossed  night; 
An  answering  chord  of  sympathy  to  every  breath — 

or  dark  or  light! 

Open,  his  heart  to  every  gentle  touch  of  every  tiny 

pain 
That  came  into  the  childish  heart  when  baby  hopes 

were  slain ; 
Atune  to  every  cruel  hurt  that  moaned  athrough  the 

land, 
A  soothing  touch  beside  white  cots,  of  rough  yet 

gentle  hand ; 
Aeolian   Harp  of  highly  tempered,  vibrant  strings 
Responding  quick  to  all  the  pain  of  bitter  things 
That  came  to  weary  hearts;  with  joy  responding  to 

the  breeze 
Of  joy  that  played  in  laughter  in  and  out  among  the 

happy  leaves. 
And    then    in    turn   wept   bitter    tears   with    every 

Mother's  pain. 
Because  of  brother,  father,  son,  in  cruel  battle  slain. 
Ah,   Harp  atune  to  every  wind   that  blows  along 

the  hill ; 
Ah,  Heart  that  vibrates  to  the  pulse  of  every  hu- 
man ill! 


HAPPY  WHEN   OTHERS  WERE    HAPPY 
SORRY  WHEN   OTHERS  WERE   SAD 

"Nothing  would  make  me  more  miserable  than 
to  believe  you  miserable,  nothing  more  happy  than 
to  know  you  were  so."  Lincoln,  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten to  Miss  Mary  Owens,  August  i6th,  1837. 
Springfield,   111. 

Happy  when  others  were  happy, 
Sorry  when  others  were  sad ; 
Such  was  the  love  of  his  great  true  heart, 
Such  was  the  soul  that  he  had! 

Smiled  with  the  boy  at  his  playtime, 
Laughed  with  his  brave  soldier  men ; 
Stories  of  fun  and  of  frolic 
Rang  through  the  camping  place,  when 
Lincoln  with  tender  heart  journeyed  that  way. 
Loud  rang  the  mirth  and  the  laughter, 
Droll  was  the  wit  and  the  story  that  day. 

Happy  when  others  were  happy, 
Sorry  when  others  were  sad ; 
Such  was  the  love  of  his  great  true  heart, 
Such  was  the  soul  that  he  had! 

Boy  on  the  night  watch  is  sleeping, 
Homesick,  and  weary  worn  lad; 
Mother  comes,  broken,  and  weeping. 
Pleading,  and  yearning  and  sad; 
Finds  a  great  heart  full  of  pity, 
Finds  a  sad  head  bended  low. 
Out  of  that  room  full  of  gladness 
With  tear  bedimmed  eyes  see  her  go! 

I 
Happy  when  others  were  happy. 
Sorry  when  others  were  sad ; 
Such  was  the  love  of  his  great  true  heart, 
Such  was  the  soul  that  he  had! 

8 


JUST  BE  KIND 

"After  all,  the  one  meaning  of  life  is  simply  to 
be  kind."     Lincoln. 

Never  Seer  of  any  age  has  told  the  world 

Truth  more  tender,  more  eternal ; 

No  philosopher  of  might  has  ever  hurled 

Across  the  far  flung  reaches  of  the  years 

Truth  more  virile,  truth  more  pregnant 

With  promise  born  of  the  eternal  Christ  himself; 

Born  of  suffering,  and  pain,  and  tears; 

Promised  hope  to  all  the  world  of  human  kind ; — 

Easing  of  the  wearing  w^orld  old  fears; 

And  yet,  'tis  only  this,  just  to  be  kind,  to  be  kind! 

Universal  language,  though  unspoken,  of  mankind ; 

Understood  instinctively  by  beast  as  well  as  man ; 

Whether  here  in  halls  of  learning  or  in  yonder 
slough  we  find 

Him  groveling  in  the  worm  fed  slime,  and  dirt, 
and  mire, 

Seeing  him,  nor  blue  spread  stretch  above,  nor  God- 
like heart  of  love; 

Understood  by  worshipper  of  wind,  or  earth,  or 
fire; 

Wise  or  foolish,  high  or  lowly;  all  will  understand; 

All  the  world  of  throbbing,  breathing,  living  kind! 

If  you'll  do  only  this:  just  to  be  kind,  to  be  kind! 

WHERE  THERE  GREW  A  THISTLE 

"I  have  not  done  much,  but  this  I  have  done — 
wherever  I  have  found  a  thistle  growing  I  have 
tried  to  pluck  it  up,  and  in  its  place  I  have  planted 
a  flower." — Lincoln. 


{ 


^ 


Ah  Lincoln,  many  a  flower  of  joy  and  hope 
You  planted  where  the  thistles  grew 
In  weary  hearts  that  beat  in  bitter  pain, 
Nor  pity,  love,  nor  comfort  knew; 
Until  YOU  came  that  way  with  open  hand 
And  scattered  seeds  of  flowers  in  the  sand. 

Full  many  a  little  child  with  tear  stained  face 
Could  point  with  pride  and  joy  along  the  way 
Where  erst  while  was  a  stony,  stumbling  place 
That  you  smoothed  o'er  one  stormy,  dismal  day, 
And  earthed  the  seed  of  wondrous.  Fairy  Flowers, 
Which  eased  the  tears  and  gilded  sweet,  the  hours. 

And  many,  many  soldiers  boys  in  stress  and  pain, 
Aweep  for  lack  of  love,  and  tender  care, 
Have  learned  to  breath  with  reverence  your  name. 
Because,  along  their  thorny  pathways  there 
You  planted  seeds  of  love  that  bloomed,  to  be 
Flowers  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  sweet  beauty. 

And,  Mothers  too,  will  long  remember  you. 
Because,  along  their  weary  road  of  life 
Where  cruel  thorns,  and  thistles  grew, 
You  rendered  sweeter  far  the  bitter  strife 
Of  war,  and  death,  by  sowing  seeds,  and  dropping 

tears 
That  flowers  of  pity  still  might  bloom  along  those 

years. 

Teach  us.  Oh  kindly  man,  of  Kingly  heart 
To  stiffle  all  the  thistles  and  the  thorns ; 
To  play,  with  Thine  own  sweetness,  well  our  part 
In  life's  sad  drama,  though  our  way  be  drear 
As  yours  was  once ;  and  help  us  keep  aback  the  tears 
By  planting  seeds  of  flowers  ever5rwhere  we  go ; 
As  you,  by  leaving  flowers  of  love,  where  thistles 
grow! 


10 


"ACQUAINTED  WITH  GRIEF" 

"I  have  been  too  familiar  with  disappointments  to 
be  very  much  chagrined  with  defeat".  Spoken  by 
Lincoln  in  his  first  public  address  at  Salem,  March 
9th,  1832. 

A  little  lad  he  was  when  first  he  knew  the  pain  of 

grief; 
'Mother's   little    Soldier,    comrade,    Mother's   little 

Man' 
She  called  him,  sounding  deep,  as  only  Mothers  can 
His  childish  heart,  unearthing  qualities  that  seemed 

beyond  belief. 
Warm,   and   sweet   was   that   dear   comradship,    as 

Summer  sun 
Through  nine  ambitious,  reaching  years  of  tender, 

sweet  boyhood — 
When  suddenly,  a  morning,  bleak  and  drear,  broke 

o'er  his  little  world 
And  God  had  taken  from  his  life  that  understanding 

one. 

Ah  yes,  he  knew  what  disappointment  meant; 
His  was  a  life  with  deepest  sorrow  blent! 

In  early  manhood's  breaking  dawn  he  felt  again  that 
thrust  of  pain. 

Comrade  was  she,  dear  and  tender  flower  of  woman- 
hood. 

Who  came,  and  soothed,  and  loved,  and  ever  un- 
derstood. 

His  hopes  had  world  wide  grown  since  down  his 
rugged  path  she  came! 

Tender,  deep,  was  that  dear  comradeship,  as  brood- 
ing stream 

When  Summer  winds  of  Southland  play  along  its 
flowered  way. 


II 


Then  suddenly,  black  clouds  drove  back  the  glory 
of  that  day, 

And  she  was  gone  from  him ; — alone  he  stood,  shat- 
tered his  dream. 

Ah  yes,  he  knew  what  disappointment  meant; 
His  was  a  life  with  deepest  sorrow  blent! 

A  little  lad  with  happy  face  to  cheer  a  lonely  Fath- 
er heart 

Came  to  him  in  the  wearied  years  of  that  long,  cruel, 
bitter  strife 

Of  war,  and  pain,  when  sorrow  brooded  o'er  his 
saddened  life. 

Alone  he  stood  from  all  the  world,  save  that  one  lit- 
tle soul,  apart. 

Close,  and  sad  was  that  dear  comradeship,  as  Au- 
tumn days 

Arc  dear  to  hearts  that  weep,  and  souls  that  live  in 
loneliness. 

But  suddenly  his  great  heart  fills  with  saddened  pain 
and  stress — 

The  little  lad  is  gone ; — Ah  lonely  man,  who  walks 
in  lonely  ways! 

Ah  yes,  he  knew  what  disappointment  meant; 
His  was  a  life  with  deepest  sorrow  blent! 


12 


THE  HUMBLE  WALK  OF  LIFE 

"I  was  born,  and  have  ever  remained,  in  the  most 
humble  walks  of  life".  Spoken  by  Lincoln  in  his 
first  address  to  the  people  of  Sangamon  County, 
Salem,  111.,  on  the  9th  of  March,  1832.  His  first 
public  address. 

Yes,  Lincoln,  you  have  walked  the  humble  walks  of 

life; 
You  have  known  the  way  of  pain,  and  bitter  strife; 
Sprang  you   from   dear   Mother   Earth,   her   noble 

son, 
And  Man  of  Might,  with  soul  triumphant,  stalwart 

one! 

Yes,  Lincoln,  common  ways  have  known  your 
mighty  tread ; 

Humble  paths  o'er  which  your  strident  foot-falls 
led; 

But  you  have  given  glory  to  the  poor  man's  weary 
load, 

The  pack  the  humble  man  bears  down  life's  com- 
mon road ! 

The  common  man  is  King  of  All  men  living  now, 
since 

You  have  trod  the  common  path  with  princely  rev- 
erence. 

And  we  have  learned  to  love  the  common  man  the 
more 

Because  you,  Lincoln,  trod  that  Holy  way  before! 


13 


THAT  WONDROUS  NAME ! 

"I  cannot  but  know  what  you  all  know,  that 
without  a  name,  perhaps  without  a  reason  why  I 
should  have  a  name,  there  has  fallen  upon  me  a 
task  such  as  did  not  even  rest  upon  the  Father  of 
his  country."  From  an  address  to  the  legislature  of 
Ohio,  Feb.  13th,  1861. 

"Lincoln",  name  that  men  now  speak  with  reverent 

hearts, 
Tis  true,  was  once  unknown,  unsought,  unfamed 
Of  men,  unspoken  in  the  far  spread,  untilled  parts 
Of  his  own  land,  a  great  eternal  soul  unnamed 
By  human  ken,  yet  christened  well  by  an  eternal 

hand 
To  raise  a  sunken  race,  and  save  his  native  land ! 

** Lincoln",   name  that  all  the  world   has  come  to 

know ; 
Name  that  all  men  speak  with  piteous,  tender  touch, 
Because  he  knew  the  way  of  thorny  paths  to  go; 
Because,  like  million  weary  souls,  he  suffered  much ! 
Because,  like  Christ  of  Calvary,  he  loved  all  those 
Who  suffered  pain,  as  one,  who,  suffering  knows! 

''Lincoln",  name  that  shall  be  whispered  down 
The  murmuring  corridors  of  changing  years. 
And  centuries  that,  whirling,  come  and  go; 
Name  that  gathers  'round  it  hallowed  mist  of  tears ; 
Name  that  centuries  will  cut  like  glacial  grooves 
Deep  in  the  breast  of  time,  the  coming  worlds  to 
move! 


14 


"WITH  HIM  I  CANNOT  FAIL" 

"Without  the  assistance  of  that  Divine  Being  I 
cannot  succeed.  With  that  assistance  I  cannot  fail. 
Trusting  in  him  who  can  go  with  me,  and  remain 
with  you,  and  be  everywhere  for  good,  let  us  con- 
fidently hope  that  all  will  yet  be  well."     Lincoln. 

What  Faith,  what  Trust,  what  Hope  was  yours 

Ah,  Man  of  Might,  of  stalwart  strength! 

Your  faith  unhemmed  by  swinging  doors 

Of  minster,  church,  or  stately  length 

Of  steeple  spire;  by  creed,  or  race; 

But  in  the  Eternal's  ever  kindly  grace 

You  trusted,  know^ing  that  you  could  not  fail! 

What  confidence  that  held  you  strong 
All  through  the  blackened,  dreary  night 
Of  war,  so  gruelling,  so  bitter,  and  so  long? 
What  deeper  insight  made  you  know  the  right 
WTien  all  your  world  was  saying  you  were  wrong, 
And  cruel  cries   of    hate  came    from    the   countless 

throng? 
Ah,  It  was  because  you  trusted  God,  and  knew  you 

could  not  fall! 

What  love  was  It  that  kept  you  kindly  sweet 
When   your  own   life  was  touched   with  sorrow's 

sear? 
And  all  the  world  that  seemed  to  you  most  meet 
Grew  black ;  when  she  that  seemed  to  you  most  dear 
Was  gone,  and  sorrow  deeply  hovered  over  you? 
How  was  It  that  you  held  you  nobly  true? 
Ah,  it  was  because  you  trusted,  knowing  that  HE 

would  not  fail! 


15 


THE  PURE  THREAD 

Into  the  strong  man's  life  there  came 
At  this  time,  one  whose  softening  touch 
Upon  his  rugged  life  had  much 
To  do  with  all  his  tender  fame. 

Ann  Rutledge  was  the  daughter  of 
An  old  romantic  southern  home 
Where  often  in  the  southern  gloam 
She  dreamed  her  dream  of  future  love. 

When  Lincoln  met  her  first  she  seemed 
A  simple  Rose  touched,  timid  maid, 
A  Fairy  of  the  dale  and  glade, 
Unspoiled,  unblighted  as  she  dreamed. 

All  who  knew  her  loved  her,  when 
They  saw  the  beauty  of  her  soul. 
And  e'en  to-day  great  tear  drops  roll 
From  eyes  of  those  who  knew  her  then. 

Strong  Lincoln  learned  to  love  her  with 
Such  love  as  lasts  beyond  the  years; 
A  love  untouched  of  hurt  or  fears; 
A  love  but  such  as  great  souls  give! 

Into  life's  motely  fabric  he 
Was  weaving  one  pure  thread  of  love 
To  bind  his  heart  to  God  above, 
And  link  his  soul  eternally! 


i6 


THAT  SACRED  HOUR 

("Lincoln  was  sent  for  and  spent  one  hour  with 
Ann  Rutledge  before  she  died.")     Ida  M.  Tarbell. 

For  you  and  me  to  pry  into  that  chamber  there, 
Where  she  was  lying,  pale  and  weak,  with  golden 

hair 
About  her  face,   and  eyes  of  love  once  more   full 

bright 
When  he  came  in,  at  last,   for  all   to  say  'Good- 

Night'; 
Would    be    the    direst   sacrilege,    though    deep    our 

love! 
Just  two  that  scene  was  for, — and  God  above! 

One  hour  alone  with  her,  one  anguished  hour  he 

spent; 
No  human  eye  to  see  his  pain,  no  comfort,  save  the 

heaven  lent 
Its  sunshine  creeping  through  the  open  door  to  light 

her  dying  face; 
A  symbol  of  the  light  that  was  for  her  beyond  the 

bode  of  human  place. 
No  spoken  word  from  that  sad  hour  has  yet  been 

told   mankind ; 
But  see  the  piteous  man  who  stumbles  out,  broken 

groping,  blind! 


17 


FLOW  GENTLY  NOW,   SWEET   SANGA- 
MON 

(The  Sangamon  is  the  river  beside  which  Lin- 
coln and  Ann  Rutledge  used  to  wander  in  their 
love  days,  and  beside  which  Ann  Rutledge  is  now 
buried.) 

Sweet  Sangamon  flow  gently  now, 

For  she  sleeps  here,   her  whitened   brow 

And  slender  form  relaxed  in  rest, 

Her  grave  in  flowered  splendor  dressed. 

Flow  gently  now,  it  does  not  seem 

That  she  is  dead,  but  just  adream 

Beside  Thy  softly  flowing  stream. 

Flow  silently,  sweet  Sangamon, 
While  evening  shadows  creep  along 
The  pathways  leading  to  her  grave. 
Where  gentle  breezes  waft  and  wave. 
Flow  gently  now,  it  does  not  seem 
That  she  is  dead,  but  just  adream 
Beside  Thy  softly  flowing  stream. 

Speak  softly,  O  sweet  Sangamon, 
Do  not  disturb  that  saddened  one; 
That  'Man  of  Sorrows'  kneeling  there 
Amid  the  evening's  hallowed  air. 
Just  whisper  now;  it  does  not  seem 
That  she  is  dead,  but  just  adream 
Beside  Thy  softly  flowing  stream. 

Far  from  this  scene  flow  on,  flow  on 
To  other  lands  sweet  Sangamon, 
But  ne'er  forget  that  Thou  hast  seen 
This  grave  of  love,  this  spot  of  green! 
Flow  gently  then,  sweet  Sangamon 
To  other  lands  flow  on,  flow  on, 
And  tell  the  world  it  does  not  seem 
That  she  is  dead,  but  just  adream 
Beside  Thy  softly  flowing  stream. 

i8 


THE  SANGAMON'S  GLORY 

Ah,  Sangamon  awind  among  the  h'ttle  hills, 

Full   fed   by   many   bursting   brooks,   and   tumbling 

rills. 
Until  Thy  widening,  wandering  bed 
Through  broadening,  flowered  banks  of  green  is  led ! 

What  beauties  here  of  hill,  and  w^ood,  and  field; 

Of  grasses  soft,  and  flowers,  many  hued,  Thy  path- 
ways yield ! 

What  waters  clear,  and  shadowing  myriad  leaves 

Are  fluttering  in  Thy  darkened  depth  where 
spreading  trees 

Bend  over  Thee  to  touch  Thy  breast  with  finger 
tips  of  love! 

What  massive,  fleeting  banks  of  snowy  clouds  above 

Are  mirrored  in  Thy  passive,  dreaming,  beauteous 
eyes ! 

What  fire  of  red,  and  purpled  evening's  darkened 
skies 

At  times  seem  resting  on  Thy  Mother  breast. 

As  day-light  sinks  to  night  below  the  wolding  west! 

And   yet.    Oh    Sangamon   of   beauteous,    wondrous 

mein, 
To    lingering,    loving,    memory    haunted    lovers    it 

would  seem 
That  Thou  art  glorious,  not  because  of  these 
Thy  flowers,  shadowed  leaves,  and  bending  trees; 
Thy  banks  of  green  enclosing  tender  mother  breast; 
Nor  yet  because  of  Thy  reflected  beauties  o'   the 

west ; 
But  Thou  art  wondrous,  more,  O  haunted  stream 
Because,   upon   Thy   banks  THEY  dreamed   their 

dream 
Of  love,  of  home  to  be,  of  hope  the  future  held 
When  their  two  lives  the  coming  years  would  weld 
To   one   great   heart;   and    thus,    they,   wandering, 

talked 

19 


Of  love,  and  home,  as  down  thy  winding,  flowered 

paths  they  walked 
At  evening  time  amid   the  scented   days  of  balmy 

June, 
When  love,  and  flowers  were  bursting  into  living 

bloom, 
And  birds  were  mating  in  the  new  massed  bowers 

of  leaves. 
And    throbbing    songs    were    bursting    from    Thy 

spreading  trees! 

'Twas  on  this  ver\^  spot  of  green  they  stood ; 
They  wandered  hand  in  hand  athrough  this  very 

wood ; 
Aye,    over    these    same    hills    at    sunset    time    they 

strolled 
And  stalwart  Lincoln  breathed  into  her  heart  the 

story  old 
Of  love,  and  hope,  and  home,  while  blushing  wo- 
manhood 
In  all  its  purit}',  with  lowered  eyes  all  meekly  stood 
Beside  the  noble  man ;  Ann  Rutledge,  daughter  of 

a  Southern  home, 
Woman  of  tenderness,  cheeks  of  Roses  yet  unblown ; 
Tears  of  joy,  pulse  of  stirring  dawn; — just  here. 
Perhaps  upon  this  very  knoll,  full  many  a  year 
Ago,  this  love,  that  all  the  world  has  known 
Was  born,  amid  the  subtle  charm  of  evening's  shad- 
owed gloam. 

Because  of  that,  O  Sangamon,  O  beauteous  stream 
We  tread  Thy  sacred  paths  with  footsteps  reverent. 
And    glory  in    Thy    many    flashing,    shimmering 

gleams 
Of  light, — but  walk  with  prayer,  our  heads  in  love 

full  bent, 
Because  THEY  walked  these  woodland,  cloistered 

halls. 
So  shall  we  walk  this  day  amid  Thy  myriad  memory 

calls ! 

20 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  ANN  RUTLEDGE 

(The  grave  of  Ann  Rutledge  is  marked  by  a 
simple  stone,  with  name,  and  date  of  birth  and 
death  carved  on  it.) 

"Ann  Rutledge",  just  a  simple  stone, 
Half  buried  in  the  slender  grass. 
That  name  alone 
Carved  with   unskilled  hand 
To  mark   the  resting  place 
Of  that  fair  Southland  Flower, 
Which  bloomed  in  tender  grace 
Along  a  strong  man's  sunless  bower, 
To  touch  to  sweetness  for  awhile 
A  sad  man's  rugged  life 
With  summer  sun,  and  smile; 
And  then  to  die  at  Autumn  time. 
And  leave  his  world  all  desolate 
With  hopelessness,  and  sad   repine. 
As  fades  the  flower  on  the  hill. 
Or  dies  the  Warbler's  summer  trill. 

"Ann  Rutledge",  just  a  simple  stone 

That  rests  beneath  a  clump  of  trees ; 

From  other  graves  apart,  alone ; 

Where  scented  drifts  of  summer  breeze 

Come  softly  stirring  o'  the  leaves 

Of  grass,  all  whispering  her 

Of  love  now  known  in  every  wold. 

With  all  its  pity,  tenderness,  and  blur 

Of  mist  that  falls  the  while 

Where'er  that  tear  touched,  tender  tale  is  told. 


21 


> 

"Ann  Rutledge", — no  monument  to  mark 
Your  last  earth  resting  place; 
No  granite  shaft  towers  to  the  sky- 
In  tall  majestic  grace — , 
But  e'er  for  you,  the  breezes  sigh 
And  breathe  above  a  simple  stone. 
More  fitting  that  for  your  sweet  life! 
Itself  untouched  of  bitter  strife; 
Of  env}^'s  forward  clutch  for  fame 
To  crown  a  king  and  win  him  fame; 
No  Cleopatra's  wiles  were  yours ; 
No  Helen's  Troy  e'er  op'ed  its  doors 
That  you  might  enter  robed  in  gold ; 
No  Guinevere  a  king's  life  sold ; 
For  you  were  but  a  tender  child  of 
Goodness,  and  of  light, 
Foreordained  to  gleam  the  night 
Of  greater  king  than  story  holds, 
Or  history's  great  page  unfolds; 
Your  king,  a  king  of  greater  worth 
Than  all  the  rulers  of  the  earth! 

"Ann  Rutledge",  and  no  other  mark 
To  tell  the  world  your  tender  fame. 
Above  your  rest  there  sings  a  Lark; 
About  your  life,  about  your  name 
The  glory  of  unopened  flowers 
Lingers  in  the  twilight  hours. 
Suggesting  in  their  sweet  perfume 
The  morning  promise  of  the  noon; 
A  promise  that  the  wonder  Will 
Of  God  hushed,  e'er  it  found  fulfill. 
And  yet  the  sweetness  of  your  life 
We  see  in  that  great  saddened  man, 
For  your  dear  touch  to  him  was  more 
Than  ever  king  has  felt  before! 
Ah,  sad  thought:  You  ne'er  saw  him,  when 
He  wore  his  country's  diadem 
Of  Love,  and  Faith,  and  Willing  Trust 
For  like  his  own  great  life's  dear  hope, 
Your's  ended  e'er  the  bud  was  broke! 

22 


"I  CANNOT  FORGET" 

(From  a  scene  in  Lincoln's  life  as  taken  from  Ida 
M.  Tarbell's  History  of  Lincoln.) 

How  many  tired,  broken  hearts  have  sent  that  bitter 

cry 
Throbbing  out  into  the  night  against  a  blackened 

sky! 
How  many  hearts  have  suffered  too,  that  could  not 

e'er  forget! 
How   many   souls   though   long  apart   are   longing, 

longing  yet! 
How  many  eyes  have  peered  out  through  the  rain 

and  snow  at  night 
With  vision  dimned  and  dying  soul  all  seared  with 

bitter  blight! 
How  many  arms  have  upward  reached  as  though 

the  loved  one  there 
Would  come  with  gentle  breath  at  night  from  out 

the  evening  air! 
How   many    eyes    have    filled    with    tears,    adream 

athrough  the  drifting  years; 
How  many,  many  lips  have  cried;  how  many,  many 

souls  have  died. 
Because,  brave  souls,  their  tender  hearts  could  not 

forget ! 


23 


7 

BESIDE  WHITE  COTS 

See  that  rugged  man  there,  kneeling 
Down  beside  that  wounded  boy, 
With  a  word  of  subtle  healing. 
Tender  word  of  love  and  joy! 
Who  is  that  kingly  one? 
'Tis  the  great,  and  kind  Lincoln! 

Reaching  out  his  big  rough  hands 
Touching  gently,  fevered  brow; 
(All  the  sorrow  in  the  land 
Makes  his  great  soul  tender  now!) 
Who  is  that  kindly  one? 
'Tis  the  tender  man,  Lincoln! 

Smoothing  back  the  ruffled  hair. 
Holding  close  the  pain  clenched  palms. 
Breathing  words  of  holy  prayer. 
Sweetly  reading  comfort  psalms. 
WTio  is  that  kindly  one? 
'Tis  the  reverent  Lincoln! 

See  him  bending  low  his  head 
Where  that  soldier  breathes  his  last, 
Kneeling  down  beside  the  bed. 
Tears  are  falling  free  and  fast. 
Who  is  that  kindly  one? 
'Tis  the  saddened  man,  Lincoln! 


24 


LINCOLN'S  GETHSEMANE 

The  night  was  gloom,  the  city  streets  were  bare  and 

lone. 
The  war  was  cruel  with  blood  of  slain,  and  many  a 

home 
Was  dark  that  night  for  lack  of  music,  lack  of  song, 
And  no  laugh  rang  out  through  the  darkened  gloam, 
As   that   tall,   sad    faced    person    passed    the   streets 

along. 

A  row  of  empty  houses,  cheerless,  with  unlighted 
fires 

He  passes  as  he  walks  along  with  deep,  untold  de- 
sires 

To  end  the  w^ar;  but  even  then  his  human  heart 
can  hear  the  call 

Of  God  to  fight  the  battle  through  though  deep  the 
pall. 

Then  out  along  the  fields  amid  the  lowering  night 
he  roams 

Amid  the  hurt  of  soul,  the  slain  of  life,  the  deepen- 
ing gloams! 

And  kneeling  there  beside  a  rugged  storm  flung 
rock 

Which  many  centuries  had  scorned  the  sweeping 
shock ; 

He  lifted  up  his  weary  soul,  helpless,  to  God  above; 

A  soul  all  torn  with  doubt,  and  hurt,  and  Univer- 
sal Love ; 

And  cried:  "Oh  what  am  I,  my  God  that  Thou 
should'st  bid  me  go 

To  further  ends!  Oh,  what  am  I,  that  Thou 
should'st  trust  me  so?" 


25 


THE  FACE  OF  LINCOLN 

That  massive  head  is  raised  unto  the  sW; 

A  pleading  look,  a  piteous,  broken  cn* 

Goes  up  to  God ;  a  cry  of  soul  torn  pain 

For  all  the  \vear>',  broken  hearted,  and  the  slain. 

And  now  the  head  is  bowed  in  great  humilit>' 
Wliile  deepening  lines  of  care,  and  world  pit>' 
Furrow  hea\y  lines  in  that  brave,  manly  brow. 
Enough,  sad  heart,  Thy  soul  to  crush,  Thy  head 
to  bow! 

t 

Cheeks  hollow,  sunken  with  the  awful  strain 
Of  midnight  vigils  filled  with  anxious  pain ; 
Lips  all  aquiver,  ever  nigh  to  s\Tnpathetic  tears 
Through  all  those  wear>',  gloomy,  saddened  years. 

Eyes,  Ah,   'tis  here  the  hurt,  within  their  depths, 

shows  most! 
For  here  the  bitter  sadness  of  a  sorrowing  host 
Of  sufFering,  yearning,  cr\-ing,  hungering  souls. 
That,   deep  within   that  might\^   heart  of   love   he 

holds, 
Broods  in  those  haunted,  sleepless,  wondering  eyes, 
Like  Autumn's  sorrow  for  the  dying  leaves,  which 

gloams  the  skies; 
WTiere  all  the  sadness  of  a  Nation's  myriad  pain, 
And  all  the  travail  of  a  thousand  mothers'  slain 
Is  buried  deep  within  their  piteous,  brooding  sweep ! 
Ah,  eyes  that  yearn,  and  eyes  that  turn  to  God,  and 

e>'es  that  weep! 


26 


■FATHER  ABiL-\HAM"   THEY  CALLED 

HIM 

"Father  Abraham"  they  called  him. 
Spake  it  softly,  Sfoke  it  low. 
With  a  touch  of  sacred  feeling — 
All  his  soldiers  spake  it  so. 

Wlien  the  battle's  smoke  was  roUing, 
Wlicn  the  maimed  were  lying  low, 
"Father  Abraham"  the>-  spake  it. — 
Spake  it  tenderly,  and  low. 

'Round  the  Camp  Fires  in  the  even, 

Wlien  his  "Bov-s"  all  tendcriy 

Song  their  songs  of  home,  and  mother; 

\Vlth  the  tear  drops  falling  free, 
-■\lways  sang  they  of  another. 
"Father  Abraham",  'twas  he! 

"Father  Abraham",  from  white  cots 

Spoken  softly,  with  a  gfenn 

Of  hope,  and  joy.  and  tender  thoughts. 

From  the  d>ing  breasts  of  men  that  seemed 

Nearer  heaven  than  the  earth; 

Place  of  pain  where  seemed  a  dirth 

Of  tender  hands,  and  tears«  and  words  to  pray, 

'Till  "Father  Abraham"  passed  that  way. 


7 

THE   PATH   HE  TROD— THE  PATH  OF 

THE  HILL 

Two  pathways  wind  the  varied  tread  of  life 
That  men  may  take:  adown  the  meadowed  stream 
Beside  the  murmuring  river  where  the  strife 
Of  battle  sounds  but  dim,  like  echoing  dream 
That  is  so  far  away  it  seems  a  fairy  tale, 
And  not  a  bloody  truth  that  turns  men  pale! 
Adown    this    flowered    way    are    softened    beds   of 

green 
Where  one  may  storied  tales  and  poems  glean. 

The  other  pathway  leads  across  a  barren  hill 
All  seared  with  many  a  pain  and  human  ill ; 
Where  grass  is  burned  to  black  beneath  the  manly 

tread 
Of  many  thousand  souls  along  that  pathway  dead! 
The  petals  of  the  flowers  are  crisp  and  dried; 
Beneath   the  burdened  pain  of  war  the   fair  have 

died! 
A  weary  traveler  climbs  with  faltering  pain 
That  path  of  gloom  where  loyal  hearts  are  slain! 

Two  man  have  trod  this  barren,  pain  swept  hill 
In  sacrifice  for  sin  and  human  ill. 
Fire  blanched  the  winding  way  that  path  must  lead ; 
The  hearts  of  men  who  go   its  weary  way  must 

bleed ! 
Because,  where  ends  the  path,  far  trod,  and  high 
A  cross  stands  bare,  outlined  against  the  lonely  sky! 


28 


HIS  ENTRANCE  TO  FORD'S  THEATRE 

Ford's  Theatre  in  Washington  this  night 
Is  filled  with  people  e'er  the  shadow  light 
Of  evening  has  died  from  out  the  west. 
And  many  a  laugh,  and  many  a  jest 
Rings  out  from  many  happy  hearts, 
From  stately  hall,  from  street,  and  marts. 

When  Lincoln  enters  that  great  hall 
With  many  a  shout  and  many  a  call 
Of  joy  and  pride,  and  love,  they  all  arise 
And  ringing  cheers  reach  to  the  skies! 
Then  tender  hearted  Lincoln  stands 
And  reaches  out  his  great  rough  hands — 
In  blessing,  waves  them  o'er  their  heads. 
While  through  his  mind  with  muffled  treads 
His  "Boys"  in  blue  pass  by,  and  tears 
Of  sorrow  trickle  down  each  cheek. 
He  waves  his  hand — he  cannot  speak ! 

Ah,  Lincoln,  you  have  suffered  much! 
But  now  it  seems,  within  your  touch 
Is  all  that  you  have  hungered  for 
Through  all  the  sad,  and  bitter  war; 
The  hope  of  all  your  life  it  seems; 
The  fulfillment  of  all  your  dreams; — 
But  tragedy  of  tragedies! 
Within  the  moment  of  your  peace 
You  are  within  the  traitor's  touch! 
Ah,  Lincoln,  you  have  suffered  much! 


29 


7 


THE  STORM  AND  THE  CALM 

For  a  moment  the  silence  of  death  reigns  in  that 
building,  vast; 

But  as  the  truth  is  realized,  a  cry  of  vengeance  rends 
the  skies, 

And  never  was  a  scene  more  awful  than  that  thund- 
ering blast 

Of  passionate  and  shrieking  hate,  and  wilder,  cruel 
cries 

Of  "Kill  him!  Kill  him!  Kill  him!"  throbbing  from 
the  many  breasts; 

A  storm  of  hate,  and  vengeance,  throbbing,  lung- 
ing, plunging  to  its  crest! 

What  a  contrast  with  that  howling  storm  without, 

is  there 
Within  the  chamber  where  the  martyred   Lincoln 

lies,  and  where 
A  solemn  hush  has  fallen  o'er  the  great  men  gath- 
ered in  the  room 
Where  breathes  the  pale,  unconscious  form  ath rough 

the  long  night's  silent  gloom. 
At  last  the  day  light  breaks  above   the  country's 

saddened  east 
While  calmness  sweet,   spreads   o'er   his   pale   and 

wrinkled  face,  in  peace 
Eternal,  and  the  Modern  Man  of  Sorrows  passes 

to  his  rest. 


30 


"NOW  HE  BELONGS  TO  THE  AGES" 

(Spoken   by   Secretary   Stanton   two  minutes  af- 
ter Lincoln  had  passed  away.) 

Silence  falls,  unbroken  save  by  sobs  of  strong  men 

In  that  room,  where  Lincoln,  at  the  morning  hour's 
chime 

Passes  out  into  the  unknown  from  the  world  of  hu- 
man ken. 

Gone  his  body  and  his  life  work  from  the  world 
inclosed  by  time ; 

But  in  the  silence  that  was  falling  after  breath  of 
broken  prayer, 

Words  eternal  broke  the  quiet  like  a  bell  toll  on  the 
air; 

Never  in  the  world's  wide  story,  wiser  spoke  nor 
Prophet,  spoke  nor  Sages, 

Than  these  words  that  broke  the  silence:  "He  be- 
longs now,  to  the  Ages!" 

"To  the  Ages!"  well  you  spoke  it,  Stanton  of  the 

massive  mind ! 
He  belongs,  the  years  have  shown  it,  to  the  world 

of  human  kind ! 
Heard  his  story,    where'er    hearts    throb    o'er    the 

world's  far  spreading  way ; 
Heard  his  story,  children  listen  at  the  closing  of  the 

day; 
Heard  his  story,  lovers  speak  it,  in  their  hushed  and 

saddened  tones 
As  they  wander  in  the  twilight  dreaming  of  their 

coming  homes; 
Heard  his  story,  statesmen  tell  it,  with  a  thrill  of 

pride  and  truth ; 


31 


7 

Heard  his  story,  old  men  speak  it  to  the  country's 

growing  youth. 
And  the  years  have  shown  the  Prophets,  and  the 

years  have  shown  the  Sages; 
Writ  in  fire  these  words  of  wisdom, — "He  belongs 

now,  to  the  Ages!" 


32 


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